


a love that won't sit still

by smithens



Series: a love that won't sit still [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Epistolary, Falling In Love, Flirting, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Letters, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Post-Canon, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 19,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: Dear Mr Barrow,Approximately three quarters of an hour have passed since I alighted from the train at King's Cross, and six or so since we said our farewells at Downton...
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: a love that won't sit still [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747162
Comments: 223
Kudos: 193





	1. London, July 1927

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [vienna teng's stray italian greyhound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLySk3i4dFI), which is actually _not_ a love song in the traditional sense but when you're interpreting it as one i do think it rather fits these two.
> 
> no idea when this is going to update, view it in the same vein as the [you and me will get on just fine vignettes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287211) in that they're just sort of going to get published as i write them + will be related, but there's not an overarching story here so much. just kidding, i'm checking in a few weeks later and there is now.
> 
>  **eta:** oh my GOD i accidentally gave this a major character death warning instead of no archive warnings apply. there's no death in this!!!!

22/7/27

Dear Mr Barrow,

Approximately three quarters of an hour have passed since I alighted from the train at King's Cross, and six or so since we said our farewells at Downton. I trust given the feelings expressed at that juncture you will not find my writing so soon untoward — I had the mind to begin penning this letter on the train, but decided in the end that sleep ought to take precedence. Perhaps you can understand why that may be. I don't have much time at the moment, duty calls & we of the Royal Household are not known for being gracious where lingering is concerned, and I can assure you I do my best not to make a habit of being tardy, whether or not you see fit to believe me. Admittedly you do have no evidence of this. 

On that note, I happen to have had a very pleasant ride to the station this morning. Mr W. gave me an earful for lining up at the last minute. I've done the same at every house for the duration of the tour — having now mentioned this I reckon I'm doing a very bad job of convincing you of my sincere efforts to be à l'heure — but did not have a good reason for doing so until this morning. The unfortunate thing is that the only real excuse I've got is one that cannot be shared. Isn't that just the way! In coming up with an explanation I rather put Mr M. in the line of fire, but, fair-weather friends we are, I'm confident he'd do me the same favour and in fact he has done. Regardless I received quite the lecture. Given your reluctance to blame me for what happened yesterday evening I'd say it was one much deserved, though I'd rather it have come from you. You seemed to have no qualms about giving me unsolicited advice with your tongue in your cheek until last night. Feel free to pick that up again; it is awfully charming. You're already a much needed counterbalance in my life and I've known you for less than a week. To quote someone I know, I feel I've finally found…

I'm sure it will delight you to learn that I will face absolutely no consequences for my actions beyond the verbal reprimand. H.M. likes me and it would embarrass W. immensely were anyone with a title to find out the domestics weren't ship-shape and Bristol fashion a century in advance of our needing to be. From all you've told me about your previous overseer I can guess this personality will not be unfamiliar to you; given your own competence in running a household, however, I can guess also that were I in your charge you would find my habit of sewing nine stitches to be vexing. 

Mind I don't mean literally. I take pride in my tailoring.

Add to that, it's never much a problem in Royal residences, but there is just something about the countryside that seems to clear away the cobwebs from my head and make all this we do feel like needless pomp and circumstance. I took a morning away from Bolton Castle a few weeks ago — you must think me dreadfully undisciplined for all of this time off of work, but the truth is I'd taken nary a half day since New Year's until then, although to someone who hadn't taken one in eighteen months until yesterday I suppose that means very little. (And given yesterday, it would be impolite at best for me to advise you to get out a bit more in future, so I hope you've got someone down at the Abbey to do that in my stead.) — to visit with my cousins and grandparents, father's side. They're farmers in a hamlet west of and about halfway between Richmond and Leyburn that I doubt you're familiar with. Saw proper dales for the first time in half a decade. I don't suppose you'd have any attachments to them not being from the area but I have plenty. In another life where we could get away from work whenever we pleased I'd be making plans about now to show them to you. I did a terrible job showing you York, but there's less trouble to get into in the uplands. But that's a castle in the sky for now, isn't it? The truth is I miss all that comes with being in the North Country, land, things and people alike, and now I've another of the latter to add to the list. You might have met him. 

So I got away with lingering is the point I'm trying to make here, and I hope you did, too. I hope while we were out front standing at attention and bowing our heads you were having a much needed cuppa and holding that chain in your hand and thinking about how we said goodbye.

We got away with quite a bit in Downton, you and I did.

Speaking of getting away with lingering, I am pushing my luck here.

I am also,

Most sincerely yours,

Richard Ellis


	2. Downton, July 1927

July 22, 1927

Dear Mr Ellis,

You walked out the door fewer than five minutes ago and I don't know that it would be wise to say more than I just now did aloud (not very much) in a letter, even if there is very much I should like to say to you about what just happened. I'm writing to thank you again for everything and to express, again, my hope that we keep in touch. I don't want to leave "when we meet again" to chance. 

You didn't tell me to write, so I'm sorry if this is unexpected. It is certainly forward. You are probably going to receive this in the post tomorrow and I am aware of how that might come off. Now that I think about it you do have my address, so perhaps I should have waited for you to write to me. If you're wondering how this managed to reach you… I don't know if you remember that you gave me your calling card, but you did, and it happens to have a mailing address on it. It also has your middle initial, which I am very curious about, and a telephone number. I have no idea what your working hours are but I expect they are from dawn til dusk with more tacked on on either end, so if you wouldn't mind my giving you a ring that would be helpful information to have. I do understand if you don't. I can already think of several reasons why you might not, so please do not feel you need to share yours if you have them.

So, thank you, and I should very much like to see you again. Ideally this would happen in the near future but by now I am practised in both lowering my expectations and waiting for chances to take, so I won't be holding my breath. Until then we can write if you like.

One last thing: if I were to send you a parcel, would this be the correct address?

Yours sincerely,

Barrow


	3. Downton, July 1927

July 23, 1927

Dear Mr Ellis,

Well, I feel much better now about writing you as soon as you were out the door. Personally I always use long train journeys that I am taking for work to do work, but I suppose that isn't necessary when there are two men in the same job.

Did you keep counting the hours after you put that letter in the post? We're at about thirty-four since you lot got out of our hair at the time of my writing this. I was not keeping track the way you seem to have been; I'm just doing basic maths. If you'd like me to start doing more than that, I humbly suggest that it would be nicer to count down than up.

Yesterday morning went just about as you hoped it did. I wrote the letter that I assume you received in the evening post because that's when I got yours, had a cup of tea and spent about five glorious minutes doing nothing before I got bored. I'm not as good at that as I once was. The last two years have made it difficult. I really don't like being left alone with my thoughts any more than I have to be. The silver lining, since you're the sort for those, is that this has greatly improved my already excellent work ethic. Mr C, who mind you entered the pantry at precisely the moment I decided maybe Mrs H had made him see sense after all and I should be carrying on getting things done so the man could go back to doing things that aren't my job, apparently has not noticed this development. To be fair to him, he doesn't notice when things have gotten better, only when they've gotten worse. It's a fault of his and I'm used to it by now, or at least I ought to be after knowing him for seventeen years. I don't know why I'm writing all this when I only meant to tell you that I should not have bothered getting into livery yesterday. I hope you enjoyed doing some valeting for once. It is so rare an occasion for you after all. Knowing this it was for your sake I sat around all day in a starched shirt I didn't need to be wearing. You're welcome.

Today we're back to what we were before. I still have a job and I actually got to do it. His Lordship has decided that I am an excellent asset to the household and to be commended for my work. This happens about once every two years or so depending on how often I make egregiously bad decisions (and the clock was ticking) but I think I would have been told by now if someone had tipped off the family about Thursday night. I guess that would concern you too but as I said in my last letter I do have your card on me so there should only be one name anyone can prove and you know whose that is.

Albert (hallboy, in case you don't remember) and the maids (maids, in case you can't guess) wanted to spend luncheon today talking about how much they missed me over the last three days. Shocking to all present, myself included. I didn't allow it because I'm good at my job and that involves preventing daft behaviour at the dining table, but I thought you might like to know that they tried, given you spent the last three days telling me they would feel this way and I didn't believe you. Anna (Lady Mary's maid, absolutely nobody calls her Mrs Bates and I cringed every time you did) is walking around like she owns the place and I don't blame her for it. I do blame her husband for doing the same thing, though. The difference between them is that Anna only took it up yesterday, and after twenty years of working here and seven being married to him I think she's earned it by now. On the topic of marriage, Daisy (undercook) has decided she will set a date for her wedding with Andy (footman) after all. For the third time this year. We'll see how long that lasts. This would be more amusing if it weren't for the way people like that take all those things for granted. Oh, poor you, you've got to make a decision about the date so the priest knows exactly when he's got to tell the whole village you fancy each other.

Used to fantasise about making an objection during a reading of the banns. I may take that up again, although I've got other things to daydream about now. You might know what.

Tell me if you don't want to hear about the house. The way you carried on about how odd Downton is compared to the rest of the world I thought maybe you would.

I am glad to know you are not in trouble and despite what I said up there I do think it must have been good for you to get some rest. I wish I'd been able to myself. I guess I might have gotten away with it given how determined Carson was to do everything I do and then complain about the way I do it. I have gotten away with many things in my years at Downton, but it was not until yesterday that those things were especially good, or important.

I didn't get any sleep last night either. The boiler went out again and we've been living like Victorians since. Miss Baxter's arms are going to fall off. I've just realised I stopped abbreviating names right after I started. I hope that isn't a problem. You seem to know more about all this (and everything else) than I do so please tell me if it is. I learned my lesson about putting things in writing a long time ago, but I haven't had anyone to write to since. On that note I am hoping to finish this before going to bed for the night so that it can go out in the morning. I'm dead on my feet and in pyjamas already but this is good and important, too, isn't it? Your letter made my day to be perfectly honest. You probably know how hard it can be being in a position like this when you don't have anyone to talk to who understands. Or maybe you don't know, but that's how I've been living and it's exhausting. I guess I've told you that enough already. Sorry for repeating myself. On the subject of putting things in writing, I will have to find a place to put what you send me. It doesn't feel right to put this with the few other letters I get and sometimes places I think are safe aren't. And there are only so many things you can stick in a pillowcase.

You were probably joking, but I don't think you're undisciplined. I am beginning to think you do not know what a clock is which is unfortunate given my background, but undisciplined? No. While you were here you were doing the work of at least two people despite the fact that there are already two people to do your job. Pray tell what does Mr M do all day while you're running about doing all the valeting? If you were indeed "under my charge" I like to think I would bother to acknowledge the fact that you are actually good at what you are getting paid to do. No one ever seemed to notice that I worked hard and was good at my job when I was younger, and if there's one thing I don't care at all that Carson did differently it's actually telling the staff when they're getting things right. Because how else would they know otherwise? I had to figure all this out by myself, and for a long time I would have been content to watch everyone else suffer like I did, but… I decided not to take advantage of the opportunity when it first presented itself. I've not yet changed my mind about that, and I don't think I will. Aside from that I don't take much time off for two reasons. One of them is that I don't have any place I'd like to go anymore, or anyone to see. You have both those things and I'm happy for you.

However, I'll have you know that despite your assumption, (you really don't think well of me where this is concerned, do you? I wouldn't have said all I did if I'd known you weren't having me on) I do have "attachments" to the dales, actually. You didn't ask, but I took what I will magnanimously refer to as a holiday in Richmond in 1914 before being shunted over to Blackpool, and in the army they are very lenient in giving you time off to see and do things, so long as you are comparing the army to a big house. Basic training was a picnic compared to domestic service. For daft reasons that I think you might understand if I were to share them I spent the first full day off I'd ever had in my life traipsing about the countryside. There is plenty of trouble to get into in the uplands, Mr Ellis. If you don't know that, maybe it should be me showing them to you. Or perhaps that other chap could do it. The one you said you miss.

Beyond that, and sorry if you weren't expecting to think about that today, I do happen to like it up here, though if you'd told me that I would fifteen years ago I'd have been deeply offended that you thought so little of me as to believe I could ever be satisfied in a place like the North Riding. I am sure you would have liked me less than you do now when I was young, assuming you do like me now. You may feel that you made this clear upon your departure, but I regret to inform you that I am not so easily convinced as all that. You will need to be still more clear when we meet again. It may be to your advantage to learn how to close a door before that time comes.

But, yes, I do like Yorkshire, actually. I didn't for a long time, but these days I do. I don't want to live anywhere else now that I'm set up here.

The fact is, Mr Ellis, and this is not something I would ever say aloud so consider yourself lucky that ours is a written correspondence, I get attached.

Yours, very sincerely,

Thomas


	4. Downton, July 1927

July ~~25~~ 26, 1927

Dear Mr Ellis,

Aren't you full of surprises. If I were a more reasonable bloke I'd be telling Lady Mary to get the telephone lines changed, but I am not one to begin with and especially not where you're concerned. I hope you're pleased with yourself. What could you possibly have been planning to do with the telephone number for Downton Abbey? You didn't even know yet. And you could have just asked instead of looking over my shoulder. I'd have said yes even if we never found out, because as you have since learned, I didn't mind you.

You do know what this means. If you ever try to tell me you've forgotten something I'm not going to believe you for a second. You have made your bed, Mr Ellis, and now you've got to lie in it. 

I wish I had thought to ask any of these questions while we were talking (because I think your answers would be amusing) but I had other things on my mind. Such as how we were talking at all. I must have said this a hundred times in the last two hours, but it was nice to hear your voice, and it was nice to hear you say the same of me. I suspect you were only saying it to make me feel better, but even if you were it's not often anyone genuinely cares about how I'm feeling, so thank you for that. And you've said you care enough times that I don't know why you'd still be bothering if you didn't, so I've got that in mind. You weren't here when everyone started pretending to care. Maybe I'd doubt you more if you had been. You make doubting anything into a tough job, though.

Talking to you makes me feel younger than I am. So does writing letters. The last time I had anyone to write to like this was a long time ago, a completely different world, but I feel the same now as I did then. I told you all about that. 

Obviously when I say that I feel the same as I did then I mean the part before it all went to hell in a handbasket.

This friend of yours, the one I am addressing this envelope to, is she the same way we are? You made it sound like the rest of the domestic industry is full of us, which I remain doubtful of. Maybe it used to be that way, but in my experience it isn't in Yorkshire. You get out more than I do, so I'm sure you'd know better, but when I was looking for work it seemed everyone was married with a flock of children. Though I guess all those great houses you talked about were in Yorkshire, given that you were here because of a tour... of Yorkshire. If only they were hiring back when I was looking. I don't even have a reason not to wish for that, because I'd still have met you, wouldn't I have. 

Actually, I think that I do. None of those places have anyone living in them who's as important as Miss Sybbie Branson or Master George Crawley. Wish you could have met them while you were here. I realise that's a daft thing to say, but you have to meet children to know them. Talking about them doesn't get it all across. That may be the same with everyone, grown-ups included, but, here's another daft thing, you could probably start a commonplace book just of silly things I've said and done around you, even now that people like me here, if I were to make a list of people I care about in order of how much to how little it would have those children higher up on it than just about everyone else I know.

Back to the friend. I am lucky that I am the butler here and thus responsible for handing out the post these days, because Carson would have plenty to say about me getting letters with an unmarried woman's return address, and all good things, I'm sure. I'm not being sarcastic in saying that. He'd have said them to Mrs Hughes and in private, if anything is inappropriate in the servant's hall it's talking about this particular blemish on my character, but I'd have overheard it at some point. I always did. Always wanted his approval, too, but if I'd gotten it over that of all things…

Well. You know I'm no stranger to drastic measures.

But there's no need to worry about me taking any, Mr Ellis. At least not of that sort.

Anyway, you said we wouldn't have to be so careful if we're going through a middlewoman, but I've already written your name on this sheet of paper three times and I can't be bothered to rewrite the whole thing seeing as it's past midnight now (just fixed the date up in the corner for that matter) and I'm not to have time in the morning, so I suppose that defeats the purpose. When you reply to this you'll have to give me an example of what exactly you meant by that, because your definition of careful seems to change depending on the mood you're in.

I'm off to bed now. Thank you for telephoning. I hope we can do that again sooner rather than later, but unfortunately I stand by what I said about keeping it for special occasions. I go over the telephone bill with Lady Mary every month, and she will absolutely notice if I'm calling Buckingham Palace every day. 

Expect something larger than a letter soon.

Yours very sincerely,

Thomas


	5. London, July 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content notes:** oblique sexual content.

31/7/27

Dear Mr Barrow,

Looking over your letters (three of them! I am a spoiled man, Mr Barrow!) I see that I kept you on the telephone for over two hours and yet never answered any of your lovely thoughtful questions. 

I suppose I'll go in order.

First. Truth be told, I did forget about the card. I am indeed capable of forgetting things when distracted. Thank Heavens I took it back from him, though, and I'm pleased as anything it's yours now. Isn't that so foolish? But I am pleased, very much so. I have on my very own given a man my calling card like an overeager déb in her first London season ignoring her mother's guidance, and I am glad to have done. Gives the footman I don't have a break, doing it myself.

I have already given you a telephone call so that's settled. Wish I could do that every day as I do love your voice in my ear but you're right it wouldn't be wise. Gave you an address for parcels as well. 

Moving on to the next letter. Yes, I have been counting up the hours since we parted and will continue to do so until we've got something to count down to, as you say. I don't know when we will, though I wish I did. I don't make it home much, and it sounds as though the Granthams are quite settled in the country now. What might it have been like if you and I had met when there were still daughters to be married off and sessions to sit in Parliament, I wonder… I was a different man then. Didn't know myself or my priorities, wasn't worldly wise in the slightest, though I was blessed to have people looking out for me. They got more than they bargained for. But I was young, Thomas, so young, and as wild as your first seasons were the way you tell them I think you got swept up in it less than I did. And you're older than I, for that matter. When the war began I had just turned twenty-two, and don't we think we're men at that age but God knows none of our generation were, not a single one of us.

This letter is ambling already.

May as well use that introduction to get it out of the way that I can read between the lines, Mr Barrow, and so I won't ask about Richmond. Given what little you said about it I reckon I will not like the ending to the story. But I hope what you had was good and good for you. Only good thing that came out of those five years for me was knowing people I never would have otherwise. 

Second letter's got more to it than that, however… You can certainly write when you like to. I see that clear as day. But then, you seem to be capable of doing anything so long as you like to. I noticed that about you. When you know what you want you go after it.

Gets you into trouble.

You guessed correctly. I love hearing about the house, you people are an absolute delight, and I love hearing about you spending your day unwilling to take off your clothes because I got you into them. That is what you meant, isn't it? Any chance you still had that problem in the evening, or did your imagination help you along there? There's the kind of valeting I'd prefer to be doing.

On that note I could have explained better about the situation as far as our middlewoman goes.

Yes, my own Miss B is as we are, and yes, she is in service. What she does not do is live at that address. If you for any reason wanted to get in touch with her (I should warn you she may want to get in touch with you if I keep asking her favours) you'd address it to the R.H. just as you would for me. Her friend lives alone (complicated situation) and doesn't mind collecting post for us, but I reckon I may have been overzealous. Please continue to send most of your letters to B.P. I keep up correspondence with friends and family out of this place enough that a new address, be it a man's or not, is hardly worth mentioning. Besides, it won't take as much time. If you want to put down anything "silly" however, best send it to her to give it in person. Anything more than a letter as well, but I've told you so already. 

I promise to send an example of the former as soon as I am able. It has been a very long time since I've had the occasion to write anything at all like what I mean. I trust you'd tell me if you didn't want to read that sort of thing. I guess I'm assuming you know what I'm talking about. You must, surely? If you don't please say. If you don't want it, either, you must say. Mr Barrow, I open my heart too quick and I know it, and the last thing I'd ever like to do is put you off me when I might avoid it only by taking a breath… no matter if it's one I don't care to take. 

But enough of that. You've got me on my toes waiting for your parcel. You say writing makes you feel young again; I can't help but agree. Makes me feel like a boy on Christmas morning getting these from you, back in the days when Christmas meant joy, love and repose with my mum getting up at five o' clock in the morning doing everything for us. Very Dickensian. My parents sacrificed more than I ever knew at the time to make that happen. I don't know that I told you my dad worked at the railway when he was alive, just as nearly every other man in York did then (that's one thing that hasn't much changed) and the trains still run on Christmas. No rest for the wicked… not that he was anything of the sort. He was a wonderful man, and I wish I'd been old enough to come to truly know him. As for Mum she did the dressmaking for the whole neighbourhood after leaving service. Working families make do I suppose. Now Christmas means I get up at quarter to six in the morning and go to work like any other day. You'd not believe how many times they change clothes up here.

Did you grow up in a house like that? 

It's curious to me we never spoke much of our upbringing. That tends to come up soon in conversations between men like us in my experience. We've all got plenty to say on the subject.

On the subject of family in your first letter you mentioned my middle initial. It is unusual but nothing special. It's Verhoeven, and my siblings share it. Family name on my mother's side. Great-grandfather crossed the channel from Belgium in the 1800s to, this one will bowl you over, reckon you could never have guessed, enter service to the Crown. Don't ask me why and certainly not how that having descendants thing came to be, all I know for certain is I've got a job owing to it. There are dynasties downstairs in the RH just as there are up, and it isn't uncommon we get foreigners in. My understanding is prior to the war many were from Germany and thereabouts, which perhaps makes sense given the history of the House of Windsor, but they're mostly French and Swiss these days. That's how I know what I do of the language: not much but enough I can pass for upper class if I care to. That's a trick people like to pull if they suspect anything, is test your damn French by throwing more into their speech than they otherwise would. Doesn't work on me. It might if I were given a grammar exercise. But no, it's turning off the Yorkshire that's the real problem. I try to keep it to Queen's English up here when I can but there's no point in it unless I'm being spoken to by someone who went to a public school or is referred to by Grace or Majesty. Did a bit of work on my accent as a boy — didn't we all — and I shall tell you, Mr Barrow, I lose it right quick the second I'm back where I came from. Two months' touring and my work is cut out for me. 

But how lucky are we, you and I, to be living in an age when this matters less than it ever did before? All around us the needless little rules like that start to get broken… My hope is someday the needless big ones will follow, and everyone will be left scratching their heads wondering who ever thought they ought to have ordered our lives in the first place.

Returning once again to dynasties — my sister was a maid to Princess Mary until ~~she~~ the Princess married, after which she, my sister, moved back home and found a husband herself. Explaining this aloud is impossible because they're both named Mary. Gives the woman selling seashells on the seashore a run for her money. We call her May most of the time, however, as do the children (the ones who aren't her own, that is). Not that this is any help keeping the words straight where her vocation is concerned.

Right, I can tell I'm going to be spending more of my hard earned wages on writing paper now that you're in my life. I need to go to sleep now or I risk ruining something tomorrow. Before I go: I get terribly attached as well. More than I think you know. You seem to be under the impression I'm not so fond of you as you are of me. If I may, the feeling is mutual. Maybe we ought to just take one another at our words.

Most sincerely yours,

Richard

P.S. Hate leaving post-scripts, always been told they weren't proper, but I don't know how I forgot and I can't keep this from you. My brother is looking into what happened with C.W. and the rest. I was right. You weren't the only man I knew in there, not by a mile, and I know I was chary of saying much on the matter when we were together but yes, him included. What a Godawful business. I'm so sorry. And I am sorry, too, for what I think may have seemed to be thoughtlessness the night of, but I had so many things on my mind and I couldn't keep any of them straight. We deserve so much more than what we're able to get, and I can't blame a man for doing something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely forgot to put end notes on here when I first put this chapter up! Whoops! Had fun coming up with backstory for this here Richard Ellis of mine. The intricacies of domestic service in the Royal Household were truly so interesting.................. based on connections, if you have them you can get in, once you're in it's a constant knife fight! That's what it looks like. No wonder he gets on with Thomas. :-3 The family history here is certainly plausible, as are the language politics. Just wanting to clarify that I Put Thought Into This hahahah. Anyway thank you for reading!!!!


	6. Downton, August 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content notes:** child abuse.

Richard,

This is a very lengthy and very stupid letter and if you find yourself thinking it can't possibly get any more foolish you'll be wrong, but I suppose I've made up my mind to send it, seeing as I went to all the trouble to put the words onto paper. But that doesn't mean you've got to read it. If you choose not to though, you probably ought to burn it. No need for it to float around any place going unread. Tell me why when you ask me a question it makes me able to chatter on and on about things I haven't told anyone about for bloody years or even ever. I don't know and to be perfectly honest it scares me. See? I just wrote that down and I wouldn't have for anybody else. When you were here and we were together it was different, it's always so easy to run my mouth out loud, but this is a fucking pen and paper. It should be different. Maybe read this alone though if you decide to. That is, assuming you don't already. I read yours that way. The point is that you asked me some things and I'm sorry, but we haven't lived the same life, you and I. I wouldn't wish mine on anybody. And it may be better to burn this anyway unless you've got a safe place to put it. It's not "circumspect" in the least. This is going to be a thick envelope as well and that's probably not very circumspect either, is it.

Thomas

* * *

August 2, 1927

Dear Mr Ellis,

Your life is incredible, you know that? "I know enough French that when people doubt I'm a toff I can convince them otherwise"? I won't be vulgar in a letter, but WHAT? Why do you ever find yourself in this predicament? How many occasions do you have where this is a problem for you? I may have done my share of London seasons and I know what can go on down below when the upper classes get to mingling but you seem to be very familiar with coming off as people you aren't. You are mad, Mr Ellis, and no mistake.

Very little house news. Downton Abbey needs a new boiler, so Lady Mary and Lord Grantham are furious about where the money's going to come from when they've just paid somebody about reshingling the roof and suchlike, which makes my job delightful. Everyone on staff is exhausted and ill-tempered. We spend all day dealing with them upstairs not having hot water and then we've got to deal with the very same. At least it's summer and we're not about to freeze. Honestly, it may as well be 1827. Makes me wonder what was going on back then, what life was like. King George IV, yes? When your mum's people came over, I suppose. That was before Downton Abbey even looked like it does today; they had it done up Jacobean in the 1850s I believe it was. A hundred years ago they'd have had about five times the servants we do now and we'd all be working for longer, in closer quarters, with less pay. No electricity, no telephones, no gas, no boiler… 

I suppose if anything it's like 1910. That's when I started and we didn't have any of those things. Well, we had the last two but different than we do now. This whole place was oil lamps and candles and every time anybody needed more than a sink's worth of warm water upstairs or down we usually had to heat it up and cart it around. Not me, of course, I had other things to do as a footman, for example walking down to the village to personally hand envelopes to the Dowager's own footman (she hasn't had one of those in a while) because, again, we didn't have telephones, although mind you it took her ages to decide to join the 20th century where those are concerned too. But the hall boy and the scullery maid did the dirty work. Poor Daisy. She and I were brought on at the same time. You couldn't pay me enough to live like that again. I can't believe everything I've gotten used to in seventeen years. It's mad. We've come far, haven't we? As people. I guess you think about that a lot already. I don't. This is all new to me. 

Maybe you've got a point after all, but I won't ever fully believe it til I see it.

More with the house… there isn't much, like I said. Daisy and Andy make me want to vomit mooning all over each other, they may actually get around to setting a date this time, and Albert's gone mad over Florence, one of the maids from the village. I thought he had his head on straight, but it seems I was sorely mistaken. Mrs Hughes and I hired the two of them at once and this is the first inkling I've seen of it, but maybe Andy's inspired him. The girl clearly couldn't care less. Reminds me of when I was underbutler and you couldn't go a day without somebody trying to get someone's attention somehow and doing it in the most daft way imaginable.

I wish I could exclude myself from that observation, but I was the worst of us some days. I'm cringing just thinking about it.

Anyway, Mrs Hughes says it serves me right to have to watch him fumble around like that given what we've put her through in her years here. She's got a point. Maybe Albert will get over himself eventually, but I'm not holding my breath. He is a sweet lad, even if he doesn't always know how to hold his tongue. When he first arrived he reminded me of me. (Saying that makes me feel much too old.) Mrs Hughes told me the other day she felt the same way about him. That he was like me, that is. The difference, of course, is he's got a bunch of people in his corner who want to see him come into his own and grow up to be an adjusted young man. That and the fact that he's going after a housemaid and not someone with whom he's got more in common.

I was so embarrassing, Richard. 

If we'd met back in those days as you mentioned you'd have hated me. I'd have hated you, though it hurts me to say so. I'd have despised you and everything to do with you because I would have been more jealous of you than anybody else I can think of back then, and I know exactly why. Everybody else I hated for those reasons was normal, and you weren't even that, so it would have been even worse. But maybe I wouldn't have had the chance to hate you if we'd been in the same room. I didn't give other footmen the time of day, no matter how handsome they were or what pretty words tumbled out of their mouths. I am sure you were not lacking for either of those things.

1910 was my first. I suppose it was your second or third? People must have swooned over you… 18 years old, junior footman for the Royal Household, plucked right from Yorkshire and dropped into the heart of London… all those poor housemaids in for the season didn't know what to do when you entered a room, I'm sure. If I'd met you and had any brains I would have fallen over myself, but as I've just said, I didn't and I hadn't. 

No one was looking after me in my London seasons. No one who was any good at it, at least. I thought someone was. That two people were, as a matter of fact, but one left Downton after my second and the other one I didn't realise til later was never as much of a mother to me as I pretended she was… she had her own family. I can say that now that it's over. Back then if someone had dared imply I thought of her that way I'd have fumed.

Thank God someone had their eye on you, though, if it was at all like I'm imagining. Who did, if you don't mind my asking? Are they still in your life?

You didn't ask for a novel. My apologies for writing one. As for what you did ask… Your words made me blush. I think that I do understand your meaning, and I should like it very much if you were to do as you say. More than I'd better. I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop thinking about you wanting to look at me and say my name when no one ever has done for years. Does that convince you? I shall try to take you at your word like you say, but you must promise to take me at mine.

Now. About your middle name and everything. I want to apologise for all the times I mentioned your "parents" when you were here before you told me. I should have when I first found out, so I'm sorry. I am sure that assumptions like that can be painful, but they are easy for me to make. I don't know why when I've only got one parent myself. I think I've always figured everyone else has got it better than I do and that's a way it comes out.

I'd rather hear more about your family. They sound like good people. Mine's not much to talk about. Yes, Christmas was nice when I was growing up, at least when I was very little. It wasn't so much when I was older, but as far as work and money and everything goes, I already told you we lived in luxury. For working people at any rate. Obviously that's an exaggeration, we didn't really, but compared to the way some other servants I know grew up (you mentioned Dickens, Anna and Daisy could have given him a run for his money or maybe earned some themselves selling off their life stories) we did. Always had food on the table, fire in the stove and clean clothes that fit us and the weather, no hand-me-downs because it was just Margaret and me and it doesn't work that way. You mentioned when you were here how you felt about that. I don't think I ever felt the same way as you. If I did I've forgotten and I certainly don't feel that way now. But, yes, we did all right for ourselves I suppose. Or rather my parents did all right for us. I've fallen far from where I was meant to be when you look at it in terms of trade and everything, although I'm sure I'd be out of a job by now if I had taken over the family business. All those factories putting people out of work and then the war. Still, skilled work is different than ours, though I don't need to tell you that whoever came up with that idea never spent a day on his feet in a great house. We do more than everyone thinks, even the people we serve, because that's our job is to make sure they don't have to think about any of it. 

But you asked about my family. Or you implied you wanted to know at least. Well, my mother was always ill, my father isn't a good man, and my sister, she's older than me, took after him. I took after my mother, though I've never been sickly. They had a lot to say about that when I went up to those London specialists. Maybe that's what you meant by plenty to say on the subject. I'm sure I'm not the only bloke to have grown up the way I did. The worst part is everyone thought we were perfect. Dad had everyone wrapped around his finger. Perfect man with a perfect household and two perfect children, most moral good people you ever did see. Charitable to everybody but smart about it. My father was a clever man, I'll give him that. He was so clever nobody knew there was anything wrong at the Barrow house for about twenty five years. That's how old Peggy was when she got married. I guess I wrote Margaret before. She stopped going by the nickname once she was out of school but I've tried to keep thinking of her that way out of spite.

Anything wrong means me, of course, not what he put me through.

They knew early on. Probably before I did. Mum thought it was sweet and I'd grow out of it, if you can believe that. Well, she was right about one thing, I am very sweet when I care to be. She didn't live long enough to know she wasn't right about both, though. For the best really. I know she wanted grandchildren. Grandchildren with her husband's name on them, to be exact. Although I don't know if Peggy ever had any herself. The last I heard she was still trying and that was thirteen years ago, when she'd been married seven or so years already. I guess I could ask Miss Baxter. They send Christmas cards I believe, although for private reasons my sister isn't as keen on her as she used to be. They were close friends as children and stayed that way until about when the war ended. When we were young, and I'm almost ten years younger than they are, she was at our house all day some Sundays. Loved my father like he was hers. I don't know if I should tell you this as it's not only my secret to tell, but she went through the same thing I did at her house and probably worse, and even she didn't notice what was going on. You don't know how furious that made me. Nobody had a clue. 

There's more of an answer than you ever needed or cared for. ~~Bet you're glad you asked.~~ I find it interesting you don't like post-scripts because they're improper. I've heard that before myself, but it seems to me like one of those pointless rules meant for people with more time and money on their hands than we've got. Sometimes ordinary blokes forget to say things and need to put them somewhere else. I've never understood what the problem is. Crossing things out is the worst according to my mother. She'd make us rewrite the whole thing. Seems a waste if you ask me. I only wish I could cross things out in real life, let alone get a complete do over on a fresh sheet of stationery. Well, she's not here now so I'll do as I like. Sorry for being so rude but I guess you had to find out sooner or later how I am, didn't you, Mr Ellis?

I don't mind telling you I loved hearing you talk about your nieces and nephews when you were here. You are bound to be the best uncle in the city of York and probably everywhere else in the world, let's not kid ourselves. I'd believe it just from how you smile when you talk about them. We have so much to give and only so many people we're allowed to give it to, don't we? It's easy to see where all your love goes. Mine is in the Crawley children, as I've said. I know it's pathetic but it's how things have turned out.

Lady Mary has told me before she's grateful. I don't know whether or not to believe her. Branson would rather not think about it where Sybbie's concerned, but Lady Sybil spoke to him about me back in the day and I gather that's why he never had a problem with it. Her good opinion of me never wavered, despite everything. She was the only one who ever gave me a chance to give her one, though. And she knew about me and she told me outright she didn't mind and wanted me to find happiness some place, wherever I could, even if I had to leave everything I knew to find it. Those were her words and she said them while looking me in the eye. "Even if you have to leave everything you know." She had a habit of giving advice that she needed to take herself and so it wasn't always very understanding of what being a servant is like or for that matter what social class is to begin with, but she gave it to me, of all people. We went through a lot, she and I. 

Fell apart after the war, though. I let it. She tried to write to me from Ireland but I didn't dare write back, not when everyone downstairs sees who gets mail from whom. And I was afraid she'd find out the kind of person I really was when she wasn't around. Let me tell you I regret that more than almost every other horrible thing I've done in my life, and that is a lengthy list.

Mr Ellis, how is it that you make me spill out my entire soul to you even as you're miles away in London? I shouldn't have told you any of this and yet here it is on the page before me. I hope you'd tell me if you didn't care to read all this. I'd stop writing it if you said so. I can't believe I've done it more than once. Please tell me if you want me not to. I am sure I can find it in me to write shorter letters if you ask.

I may rewrite this later, although I suppose doing so would be dishonest in a way. We'll see. This did take up a lot of paper and I'm not inclined to waste it.

I guess I'll end this here.

Very sincerely yours,

Thomas

P.S. Look at me being all improper just like you. I won't be rewriting because to put it plainly I can't be bothered, but I did reread all this and I think at some point I intended to say that Lady Mary came down the other day and apologised for asking me not to do my job. I mentioned her twice up there and then carried on about something different each instance but I think that's where I meant to go. Mind you she didn't apologise in the traditional sense, between you and me she doesn't know how, but I know when she feels guilty after being in her house for seventeen years and she did her best to show it, too. And they're still going to pay me. I doubt they would if they knew what I did while I was being redundant to the household. But even if they didn't, I got something out of it in the end, didn't I?

P.P.S. I guess I didn't actually refer to your own post-script. I don't know if I have anything to say. It makes me sick to my stomach. I hope ~~what he finds out~~ ~~isn't~~ ~~doesn't give too much cau~~ that they will be all right. Even though I know better.


	7. London, August 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T for language, oblique sexual content, implied suicidal ideation.

4/8/1927

Dear Thomas,

This is less of an answer than you deserve but I just wanted to send something off so you'd know how I was feeling. I hate waiting to hear from somebody when I share something important — even when I'm speaking out loud, sometimes I'll say something and somebody will just stare, and the trouble of a letter is you don't even get that much. Makes me anxious, and I think you and I may be alike in that way. Won't have time for a few days to write you anything longer. I beg you please be patient with me because I don't mean anything by it. I've included in this envelope something I wrote the other night just to give you something more. I wasn't going to send it as it struck me as embarrassing drivel but I don't want you to feel as though you've shared more than I have. Helpfully I also folded the thing after I wrote it and it's a late enough hour now I'm not so concerned about "spilling out my entire soul". 

What you said in that letter wasn't stupid, and nothing about your life is pathetic. You are more brave a man than I will ever be and I don't know how you've managed. I don't but I am so grateful and glad that you have. Remember you are doing what you must to get by.

You told me in another letter to consider myself lucky. I do. I have had more good fortune in the last fourteen days (you see? I am counting) than in years and it is all to do with having met you.

Most sincerely yours,

Richard

* * *

31/7/27

I wrote you a letter, sealed it, readied myself for bed and nearly fell asleep… and then remembered after all of that as I had forgotten to include something important. It's been taken care of, but now my mind is wandering and has been for about an hour now. It shouldn't be, given the nature of the thing I forgot. There's no doubt of that. But it is, and I reckon it would do me better to put these nerves to use than to lie awake tossing and turning trying not to think about the things that I am.

In all my life I've done that more than a man should ever. I hate to tell you so, but I must. The truth is that I'm not a man worthy of being looked up to. I have spent so much time over the years wishing I were somebody else, wishing I had what other men I had, wishing I had answers to why it was me who had to be the way I was. Some nights I would lie in my bed awake and restless as I've just done and wonder if I'd be better off dead. I never knew the answer. Even now, I don't always. Do you blame me for it? I shouldn't fault you if you did. I know when I was in Downton you and I spoke some about the early years but what I didn't tell you was how fearful a boy I was. I touched on this in what I wrote you this evening, but I was taken by storm when I moved here. London is like no other place on Earth. I loved it, and I did so unwisely. I still love it, though it will never be home and it will never be the country. But my first April… whose idea was it for footmen to be so young as we were? Seventeen to twenty five or so in most houses and never from anywhere extravagant, throwing us all into the cellars and attics of high society and expecting us to keep our heads square in the middle of our shoulders… no place like London, as I've said, and certainly no place like London in the summer. I gave my heart away too easily. Come shooting season each year I was always desperately lonely, and then we'd be up at York Cottage, removed from all the rest of society and half an hour off from the rest of England. It fucked with my head, that's the most plain way of saying it. It always went the same way, each and every year. In April I'd dip my toes in, by July I was drowning, and August would come just as soon as I'd begun to tread with my head above water… and then it was over, we were out of the city and I was confronted head on with what I couldn't have, like running full speed into a brick wall, and it fucked with my head. That half hour didn't help. I remember you said when you were in New York it felt strange knowing that at Downton they were settling into bed before dinner had begun. I almost wish it were like that. That would justify the malaise. Every minute counts in our jobs, you know well as I do. And don't I know. I joke about it but it's gotten more and more difficult every year, living a life so strictly regimented, and someday I'll make a mistake I can't go back from. It takes so very little to lose one's place here, and I've done things I'm not proud of to keep mine. I've got to compensate for my faults same as any other man, but God they just keep getting worse and I worry soon enough the day will come when everyone realises what a fraud I am and I lose all I know. Being a minute behind may be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Once upon a time I was good at keeping up. That's what a footman does, after all. I was exemplary. I don't remember how. Maybe I was less inclined to stop and smell the roses. 

In London it's easier to move and do and be without thinking about any of it, but that's not so anywhere else. Not in Yorkshire, because I'm reminded there of what it's like to be a person, sentimental as that sounds, and not in Norfolk, because of that pesky half an hour lost. You'd think it wouldn't make much difference, but waking up at quarter til when your body thinks it's quarter past and you've got more time yet ruins your day. 

The worst part is they're still doing it. Other frivolous things went by the wayside come 1919, but not Sandringham time. What a silly thing. It's only pretending, wouldn't you say? Not even the King and Queen of England can change how the Earth turns… and shouldn't we all be thankful of that.

This was meant to be a love letter. What it has turned out to be I couldn't tell you, but it isn't what I hoped for. I suppose that means I can sign it properly without qualms. Or I could do, if I hadn't said what I meant for it to be just now or made repeated use of uncouth language. 

I'll get around to writing you a proper one of those eventually. It's been so long since I've written anything of the sort, but I want to take it up again for you. I want to give you things that you can hold in your hands and know that I am thinking of you. When I am in love I am all for tokens and keepsakes and if it were '85 I'm sure I'd have given you my hair by now, but I did give you something. Something that can't be burnt. My mind keeps wandering back to that story. I have been hurt before and I have hurt others before but that seems to me a special kind of cruel. 

On that solemn note I ought to sleep. 

I can't believe we've not known one another a fortnight.

I am yours most sincerely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh ariana we're really in it now


	8. London, August 1927

8/8/1927

Dear Thomas,

I found time sooner than I thought I might to sit down with your letter.

I'm clever enough I can gather what you're telling me by your words, Thomas, and I don't know what to say to you that might be a comfort or if you'd like a comfort at all—you had me at an arm's length in Downton and I can't blame you for it. I'm hardly the best man I know when it comes to all this. I never cry when I'm troubled, can't bear it when others do… but I needn't explain. You saw it firsthand.

What I ought to say then is thanks. I don't know what reason I've given you that you feel you can share these things but I'm ever so glad I have done. Just as well, I'm not sorry to have asked, although I am sorry to have been so careless as I was in the asking. Men like us tend either to share more than we ought to or nothing at all. I've been dealt a hand of the latter in my life and yearned for the former all the while, unwise though that may be, and it means very much to me that you tell me anything at all. I want to share everything with you myself, only I'm afraid everything doesn't amount to much. You give me so much that is truly of yourself and all I have in return is bits and pieces.

I told you this in my previous little note but it bears repeating: you are a brave man. The more I learn about you the more remarkable I find you. I feel as if the only thing worth mentioning about me is my employment, but you've lived a hundred lives in one and each and every of them fascinates me more than anything. And I wish you'd been allowed to grow up slow and fumbling with the rest of us, in a household that saw you as a boy who would come to be the wonderful man I met, where they gave you the care and love you deserve. I wish you had been looked after and guided like I was, and if I could turn back time I should force a hand to make it happen. Childhood was stolen from you. No boy deserves that and no man should have to remember it. I also wish you didn't think so lowly of yourself, though I know how useless it is to hear those words from others. We've got to find it in ourselves, don't we? But that's no reason we shouldn't have hands to hold along the way. I should be pleased if you would permit me to be one of yours.

I'm comforted knowing you have had others around you even if only briefly, or only recently. I saw firsthand that you have allies. Your lower staff look at you as though you're the second coming of Christ; I don't know what you've done to get that out of them and I don't know how you haven't noticed it. If you told young Albert to jump he'd ask how high. You'll tell me that's what you pay him to do and it's nothing noteworthy, but while you were sulking in front of a book in the servants' hall some of us were scrambling to get work done and spying on top of it. It didn't come so easy to him under Carson. Gertie too. If you have a method, please share it. I'm at the end of my rope with my apprentice. Maybe I am a good uncle (I am terribly pleased you think so, though I'll remind you you have no evidence) but I am a terrible mentor. I take too many shortcuts. Never given him a rule I haven't broken myself ten times over.

It strikes me you may not be entirely aware of this given what you've said to me about your goings on at this time, but Lady Sybil Crawley was the subject of much discussion in London for some months after the war by high society and domestics alike. You did not meet a single chauffeur under the age of forty (or groom for that matter) who hadn't emptied his head and filled it back up again with illusions of grandeur. (Valets were a different story. Those I knew and know best are "safe choices" to have around young ladies, not that we've ever much occasion to be to begin with.) I tried not to have an opinion at the time, but I am allowing myself to have one now: I wish I had met her. I am perfectly aware of how foolish that sounds, given in what context I might have done, but from all you've said of her—you remember you told about what happened with the secretary housemaid in the car when I asked you if you'd ever wanted to leave service? All I could think (apologies, I swear you had my undivided attention) and not for the first time was that Downton Abbey was wonderfully strange and must always have been so with people like her in it, though I can assure you your words did not fall on deaf ears and my good opinion has since been tempered.

The trouble of it is while I was there I felt as though I were living in The Wind in the Willows, coming from a household where we're only permitted to sit down and speak casually in our bedrooms and at meals. Miss L. told me she'd had no idea I played the piano until our first night there. I've known her for six years. We live in identical rooms in opposite wings of the palace and take our meals seated across from one another, and she didn't know that about me for six years. You learned in six hours. (That's not to be literary, I counted.) I suppose we've ~~Mrs Mas~~ Daisy—I need to finish writing out this thought or I'll forget it but I know that was a mistake you'll chuckle at me for making—and Mrs Hughes to thank for that one, although I will tell you I thought I saw you trying not to eye me and I was doing the same. Tough to stare at the keys when you've had it trained out of you not to but I managed. I spent every spare hour trying not to watch you until our last breakfast, and then I couldn't stop myself, as though a dam broke and my heart flooded out. Just kept looking at you and smiling. I don't know that you even noticed, but I've since learned Mr M. did. He cornered me in the brushing room the other day and asked about you. Thought I might die of embarrassment. Didn't tell him anything but confirmed his suspicions. Some things are meant to be private, though you'd not know that round here… What you and I have is private and secret both. Men like us are rarely afforded a distinction between the two words, and I don't think you and I can make one yet, but there are places it's more likely to come about than others.

Another trouble… Even you yourself seem something out of a whimsical story book, so pleasant and simple to believe in and become fond of whilst you are in the thick of it but that you know is too good to be true when you are not, because you cannot feel it quite the same way when the pages are not beneath your hands, the words not before your eyes.

Awfully childish of me, isn't it? The point is that I miss you dearly already. I wrote you something that shows it but I'm too shy yet to send it, so if that doesn't come through the post soon you'll have to give me some more encouragement. I'll tell you now that knowing you think of me made me think of you more.

Right, here's a new page and you had questions.

Knowing how to pretend to be anything comes in handy when you live a life like mine, and at risk of sounding foolish... I've always liked pretending, and I tend to take opportunities for it each time they present themselves. But I don't need to tell you either of those things—I certainly didn't spare you from how eager I can be in doing so… That's referring to the footmen wild goose chase, but I see the potential for alternate meanings there and you know well as I there is little I can say to defend myself in that regard. On that note you have an excellent memory, Mr Barrow. I've not told very many blokes about those parts of my childhood. It's so difficult to explain, isn't it? Well, I suppose you wouldn't know if you never did the same sort of thing. If we'd met on the schoolyard at that age I'd have been in such awe of you, although we talked about that already, didn't we? We spoke of so much and yet there is so much yet to learn… and what fun it will be to learn it.

Upon that note, and I promise I will be getting around to those questions in a moment, if I recall correctly you've only told me stories pertaining to two of your past London seasons. I would be highly interested to hear about more if there are any, and I suspect that there are. You don't strike me as the type to hang your head for too long over rejection. I certainly am, myself, so I envy you that.

As for my own, you were right, I was lucky indeed to be looked after, although you could have fooled me at the time. What foolish thoughts I had in my head in those days… if only I knew what was to come, not that I could have done much about it. Luckily I got my head on straight after a few years, and then I had to grow up all at once like every other young man of our generation and that finished the job. These days the glamour of the season doesn't appeal to me nearly as much as it once did, and of course, it will never again be as it once was. But I hardly mind it—I never do mind when things change, so long as I can see it's for the better. It can take some searching to find the sunny sides of things, but once you know what to look for you can't stop, I find. It makes life more bearable. I won't lie and tell you I'm never glum over anything, because nothing could be further from the truth, but hoping is not a crime and we should all be glad of that.

I've not answered your question, have I? Back when I first joined the household my sister kept her eye on me—it is very difficult to get up to trouble like ours under the watchful eye of a family member. Difficult, but not impossible. Ladies' maids are kept on a shorter leash than footmen, for that matter, although I reckon we'd all be better off if it were the reverse. The other guardian of my virtue worth mentioning was Mr M. I owe him a great debt, but again, this was not my outlook at the time. I don't think I'll ever forget the day he decided to let me know he had me figured out. Was so mortified I pretended to be ill for the next three days (I am very good at that), but I cut it out when it began to look like I was going to start facing unintended consequences in the household hierarchy for my absence. And now he's my direct superior. Imagine that. You must have told me a hundred times by now not to feel sorry for you, Thomas, and I promise I don't, but it still unsettles me that you're the only bloke of our set at D—. Makes me wonder if it was on purpose, somehow. But that's paranoid, isn't it? It's hardly a question one asks at an interview.

On that pleasant note… I may as well start penning these letters in a notebook and then cutting out the pages. I started writing this almost two hours ago. You should be proud of yourself. I've never met a man who could affect my sleep in so many different ways as you.

Last things: I am sorry to hear about the boiler. It sounds as if you've all got your work well cut out for you down there. I hope it's resolved by the time you receive this—it has been a few days since you wrote. I haven't the faintest idea of how long it takes to install a new boiler into a country house. I am sorry also to hear that the lovebirds are singing, but I reckon that will quiet down eventually. They always do. Sometimes even long enough we can forget to be bitter over it. Look forward to that, and perhaps find other things to look forward to, as well.

I know what I look forward to, even if I don't know when yet it will happen. I'll let you guess the finer details.

Most sincerely yours,

Richard

P.S. About my mistake. We get a list of all the resident staff before arrival at these places and the women don't get their Christian names listed if they're married, as naturally we're not to call them such. Easier not to call anybody anything when there are discrepancies, but that makes sitting round the dining table an uncomfortable affair. Laugh all you like and cringe though you may, of all the things to get a rap at the hands for calling a woman by her Christian name when you ask her to pass the bread is among the most ridiculous, and as such I try to avoid it when I can. But you'd not believe all the chattering on the train about the Mrs Man's Name Whoevers at Downton... It dawns on me now you must have supplied that list. Do they hide the first names from us, or are you instructed not to give them? Or is it common practice for things like this and I'm unawares het up on their behalf for no reason? I still have it on my desk—won't be including it in this as I am fond of my souvenirs but I tell you on my honour that Mrs Charles Carson, Mrs John Bates and Mrs William Mason make for three more married women than one regularly sees on the roster, even in the 20s. Our maids had plenty to say about marrying within the household when they thought I was out of earshot… Little do they know tradition suits me just fine.

Our jobs are a joke.


	9. Downton, August 1927

August 11, 1927

Dear Richard,

I have no trouble believing you spent two hours on that letter. Thank you for answering my questions with such diligence—I didn't think they were all that important, personally.

It took me the better half of a minute to figure out what you were on about regarding the Mrs. About what you asked, the Royal people (I guess it must have been Wilson but they hadn't told me yet so I had to put "To whom it may concern" and "Dear sir or madam" on everything even though I figured there was a fat chance of a madam being involved) sent me instructions but it only asked for names, occupations and how long we'd been employed, didn't even give a paper to fill out or anything, so when I wrote out the list it was on Downton letterhead like so:

Head Housekeeper, Mrs Charles Carson (née Elsie Hughes, addressed 'Mrs Hughes'), 32 years

and so on. I was very meticulous. Did it how I thought they'd want it because they didn't seem so pleased by my questions.

Remember what I said about not allowing for daft behaviour at the dining table? I think that's how I put it. I need to heed my own word. I told them all about this at luncheon. I know I shouldn't have, but I did. You'll have to decide for yourself if I should regret having done it or not.

So I am sitting at the head of the table as per usual. I say, "I'm keeping a correspondence with Mr Ellis, His Majesty's valet." Now, as you can imagine we are already off to a bad start here but I decided if I never said anything they might all decide I was keeping in touch with somebody else from the entourage and I do not need to tell you I would not take kindly that. You were by far the best and most flattering option. They all know about me anyway. I won't bring it up again unless you give me more things to share.

Well, I said that, I very magnanimously let them act like schoolchildren, and then I said something to do with the Royal Household addressing married women only by their married names, and Bates made a remark so stupid I've forgotten it already that nobody laughed at. I do remember that part. Not even Anna laughed. I am taking up more space to tell this story than it needs. The point is that you've lit a spark under Daisy and we're all going to suffer for it. Funny how before she couldn't be bothered with anything to do with the Royals and didn't want to hear an opinion from your household on anything and went around calling herself a republican, and now suddenly they're right just this once and she's decided to browbeat us all into calling her Mrs Mason. You'll have no trouble believing that Andy could be taking it better than he is… She does have a point, though. You're right that's her proper title. She's an under-cook, she's married, I don't see how she hasn't earned the Mrs. But just because she has a point doesn't mean she'll have her way. I've been Mr Barrow since 1919, I am now the butler here (and have been for a year and a half but you know that already) and still I do not go a day without somebody calling me Thomas. Her included. There is no chance they will do better for her than for me, not when she's several years younger than I am and everybody still treats her like she's sixteen. Mind you I know I'm guilty of it myself, but I think I have the right because she still treats me like I'm twenty one half the time.

We're really out of the ordinary at Downton aren't we? You lot certainly didn't act like a messy Victorian family while you were here. I suppose at Downton all we've got is each other, like I believe I said before, nobody here has much for them outside of the house.

But you don't have that problem, do you?

Yours sincerely,

Thomas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coronavirus who


	10. Downton, August 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read chapter 9 first, i uploaded 2 at once :-*

August 28, 1927

Dear Richard,

I got your letter. You know the one. I don't know what you have to be shy over, as you are very good with words. Better than anyone I've ever known.

I'm sorry I haven't written since. I know what you must think, after sending me something like that, but I have tried and every time I don't know what to say and I scrap it. I've got several crumpled up letters in my desk I should probably burn but that feels wrong, too. I wish I didn't keep doing this because you don't deserve it but I can't stop myself. I'm a coward. You put so much on the line for me, nobody in my life has ever stuck their neck out like you have, what with what happened in York and helping at Downton and then sending me all those letters, and I don't know why I can't do the same for you. That's not true now that I think about it, actually. I do know, and I ~~think that I am~~

I told myself I wouldn't chuck this out until I made it to the signature so I'll leave that.

So first I should say that it isn't that I think you are lying or disloyal or anything like that. Not truly. Only I don't believe you. I can't wrap my head around why you've done all you have for me without it being a trick you're playing. But why would a man do all you have for somebody he never much liked in the first place?

I thought maybe if I didn't say anything you'd either give up, and I'd know I was right all along about you, or you'd send some sort of letter asking me where I'd gone and telling me you missed me and I'd have no trouble believing you, like magic, but then I realised that was daft, and so here I am. It took me long enough. Sorry to disappoint, but I was a bully as a child and I kept it up for far too long. I've got no excuse.

So, I will say it myself: I've missed writing to you, and I have missed receiving your letters.

I should like you to know that my apology is very sincere and that I hope you'll continue to write to me. You've said yourself you can't stand it when men disappear without a trace, so I understand if I've ruined things between us, and I will accept your decision if so. I was afraid and I made a mistake. I won't beg you for your forgiveness as I don't think you'd take kindly to that, but I should like to ask for it.

Thank you. You know what for. If I don't hear from you again I will understand.

Faithfully yours,

T. Barrow

P.S. If you really would like to continue to keep in touch, with your permission I want to write you something like you wrote me when I have the time. I should warn you I'm not a wordsmith like you are, so you mustn't judge me if it's drivel.

Also—I told you I tried to write this more than once. I feel like after what you sent me you deserve to see one of those attempts, so that's the other thing in this envelope. This is the only one I've finished.


	11. London, September 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 is the first july 14 update, so read 9 & 10 first if you haven't yet <3

22/9/27

Dear Thomas,

I feel that I should preface this letter with the assertion that I had no idea you hadn't written. The R.H. departed for Scotland on the 10th of August, and they don't forward the post for the servants. As such, I don't entirely know what to say but that you were on my mind whilst I was gone, and that I have been nothing but sincere with you in our correspondence.

I just came back up to London yesterday. I'm afraid I haven't yet the mind to address your letter in full. The journey rather exhausted me. However, it seemed important that I acknowledge whatever I could, and that is why I write to you now—I didn't write to you while I was away, after all. I'm afraid that's a line I can't yet bring myself to cross. I can't trust the post at the other houses. Sorry for not mentioning it before the fact.

In the Household we move around fairly often. I'm something of a fair-weather lover in that regard. I tend not to be around for the things I should.

Might I telephone, if you've the time? This seems to me something we ought to settle with a conversation.

Just let me know.

Sincerely yours,

Richard


	12. Downton, September 1927

Sept 24, 1927

Dear Richard,

I am pleased to know you are back safe and sound. I did find out you went up to Balmoral, and I will tell you I felt very stupid once I had. I suppose she let you know she wrote to me? 

You can telephone whenever you like, so long as it's after eleven and before midnight, same as the first time you called. I think you have the right idea, that we should talk it out.

I'm feeling better now, though. It has been a month, after all. I don't know what came over me. I'm not as happy a person as I pretended to be for you when you were here—but I think you may have noticed I was pretending. You seem to have a sense for those things, if you don't mind my saying so.

Most people don't.

Yours faithfully,

Thomas

P.S. Do you like Scotland very much? I'd like to hear about it if you have the time. After we talk, that is. You seem to have better things to say about places than I do. 


	13. Downton, October 1927

Oct 1, 1927

Dear Richard,

Well, I am glad we spoke.

It is tempting to tell you it won't ever happen again, but you and I both know that isn't a promise I can keep.

Have you had a chance to rest since we talked? They have you doing too much up there. You are busier than every other valet I know (not too many these days, I must admit), and they don't all have four other people doing their same job. Take it easy when you can!

As for me, things at Downton have finally settled down and we are going back to normal, with hot water and everything. Otherwise there isn't much worth talking about. Summer was exhausting, and I'm glad it's over. A few weeks ago the Crawleys were up at Brancaster for the grouse, which you'd think (well, maybe you wouldn't, I suspect you know better by now) would mean I got more time to myself, but instead it was arranging, cleaning and preparing day in and day out, and Mrs Hughes and I had to direct it all. I can get by with either Baxter or the children away but not both.

But everybody is back now and the season is changing, so it's not a problem anymore. Or, things with the house aren't. Autumn doesn't sit right with me. We've had nothing but rain here lately, and I don't care for it at all. Sometimes I think I'm not suited to England, but every time I go some place else I always miss it more than I like to admit. Are you very well-travelled?

I'll send you that other letter soon like I said I would. Sorry to have kept you waiting.

Yours faithfully,

Thomas

P.S. Have you received your parcel yet? It's been weeks.


	14. London, October 1927

6/10/27

Dear Thomas,

I've had time to settle since we last spoke and I am feeling well-rested, yes, or better rested at the least. Thank you kindly for asking. Too often I go months feeling as if nobody minds my health & temperament save my mother. I hope you are feeling far more at ease than I am.

As for being well-travelled, who can say? In the course of my work I've become quite familiar with England, naturally, and parts of Scotland, Wales, a bit of Ireland, etc… but you meant places more thrilling than those, I'm sure! I've gone overseas a few times—India first, as a footman for the coronation in '11, Nepal as well, and a few (in hindsight, although at the time they felt awfully long) very, very short years later, Gallipoli, Egypt and Flanders. They were not at their best, to put it lightly. You'll do me a kindness by not bringing the matter up, but I realised it was in my best interests to tell you so sooner rather than later, and now I have.

Luckily I have been fortunate to spend time in Europe since 1918, on business both official and less so. That I have fewer qualms with discussing—shall I come up with some stories for you?

Moving along: your parcel arrived not long after I left for Balmoral. (I should admit I waited to open it until after you and I had telephoned.) Now I have I'm afraid I don't know what to say. Besides "thanks" of course, for I am very thankful in addition to very flattered. Naturally you were right about the sorry state of my keys. In time you will come to realise that I am far more impulsive than I like to pretend to be, but by no means do I regret my decisions where you are concerned… except, perhaps, my lingering. In any case this will be a fine replacement and I wish only that I might show my gratitude for it (& you!) in person. What is it we've been saying about counting down?

Now, I expect you'll be pleased to learn that letter of yours has been on my mind since I opened the envelope. I'd been under the impression you considered yourself rusty; if that remains the case you are under some illusions, Mr Barrow, I can assure you. If this is what you are calling "drivel" I am eager to see where, precisely, you find room for improvement… what has you thinking you need any at all?

As for when, shall we take turns, or would you like to make hay while the sun shines and give it another go?

With deepest affection,

R.E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a crash course in how to tell the guy you're falling in love with about your occasionally debilitating ptsd while also humblebragging about your worldliness, by richard ellis


	15. Downton, October 1927

Oct 12, 1927

Dear Richard,

I certainly won't say no to more stories. I have liked most of the ones you've told me so far. I'll let you choose the ones that come next, and maybe I will come up with some of my own for you in the meantime. I haven't given you half as much as you've given me and I'm beginning to feel badly about it, so I am very pleased to learn that you liked your present.

And thank you for the compliment where my writing is concerned, though I don't know how to answer your question. I suppose it may have been rhetorical, but I've been thinking it over all day.

I guess I just remember how things used to be, and how much better I was at it. Back before the war, and I won't lie I did this during it too once or twice, there were plenty of people I wanted to keep up with. Enough to count on two hands—that's over the years, not all at once, just to be clear. Usually it was only one person at a time getting my particular letters. I already told you about the first time my heart was broken so I won't go into detail, but I think that must have been when. I was desperate for somebody to love me and that was one way to make sure he did, or at least that I stayed on his mind. In my experience, men like to think you're thinking about them, and those kinds of men like to think you're doing it more than they are, and in more specific ways. Pretending to be devoted isn't very difficult if you don't see each other very often. My problem always was that it stopped being pretend sooner than I'd have liked, and they don't like it as much if the man falling at their feet actually wants to be there. I never understood it, but I suppose it must ruin the game for them. Nothing was more terrifying than a footman who really meant he was in love when he said so, but at the same time if I didn't act like I worshipped the ground they walked on they'd move on to somebody else. It was fun until I started to care, really. It's all a big performance. You know all about those, don't you?

Sometimes I look back and think I was never pretending at all, only telling myself I was. But it's just as well. I've learned my lesson since. I've never spoken about this to anybody before. Just you. I don't mean to be too gloomy, but I hope you understand how special it is to me that you'd like to know these things, and that you ask me about them. Nobody has ever taken so much interest in me before. Remember when I said you make me feel young? That may not be true. I think you make me feel like a man. I've spent so many years worried that this is all I'll ever get in life and that maybe I'm to spend the rest of my days wondering if I ever actually grew out of being a frightened little boy and never doing anything about it because I can't bring myself to. It's too early to tell just yet, but knowing you is helping me reconsider. I want you to know that.

About taking turns… you didn't seem to me like you were very fond of the idea before, but who am I to judge?

I'll write something more for you if you write something for me. How's that?

Yours faithfully,

T.B. (Are we signing with initials now? Is that more "circumspect"?)


	16. London, October 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 15 is the first july 30 update!

20/10/27

Dear T,

You have nothing to feel badly about, about what you've "given" me nor anything else. To be perfectly honest with you I could have written the bulk of that letter myself. My confession is this: off the job I have never been half as skilled at character acting as I like to believe I am. Love cannot be taken on and off like a coat.

It would be all too easy if it could, wouldn't it be? Less heartbreak for all of us. At the present time I find there is too much of that around… But, one cannot stop pretending if one never starts in the first place. Sometimes I miss the boat and end up diving in unprepared, only to discover halfway across the water that whoever is aboard ship would be unlikely to ever do the same for me.

Regarding initials—I signed my own out of habit, but you've touched upon something important. It would serve us both to write with more discretion where possible. At the very least I'll endeavour to be a bit more mindful myself in future, hence the above salutation. I believe there is more cause to worry over an intercept on my end than on yours.

My colleagues have a tendency to be light-fingered where personal correspondence (of their superiors especially) is concerned.

You, on the other hand, may continue to address me how you like and speak as freely as you wish, within the boundaries which I've already set. I actually can't remember the last time somebody other than a very cross family relation called me Richard, and I happen to like that you do. If you haven't any concerns for your own privacy, do continue as you were!

Yours faithfully,

R.E.

P.S. I'm to lead the charge at Norfolk this evening. Support staff are travelling by regular rail which means I've a lengthy journey ahead of me... No determination yet as to how long we'll be there. To say the least H.M.'s social calendar is cramped—I'll send along a note or two (I shall have you know I am perfectly capable of taking turns) if I can manage it but I'll reiterate that I can't receive post out there. Forgive me? X.


	17. West Anglia Main Line, October 1927

20/10/27

Dear T,

We're held up on our way to Cambridge due to some sort of signalling miscommunication, and I'm more vexed by it than I've any right to be (you can understand this is never an issue when I'm with the principals—they get the "right of way") so I thought I'd pen something for you. Rolling through the countryside with a compartment half all to myself would be much nicer if it weren't pouring rain with fogged up windows… and I can think of better company. Miss L. looks about ready to strangle me if I open my mouth again but if I don't get any words out now they'll spill over at an inopportune time. It's been known to happen, hasn't it? In any case we departed London more than two hours ago and haven't gone nearly so far as I'd like as such.

How are you on trains? With travelling? We've discussed it a bit but I'll admit I tend to be a man more focused on the journey than the destination—nobody can say what comes at the end or even what comes next, in any sense at all, and it seems to me best to look on the bright side as best as one can and enjoy what all happens on the way to whatever is yet to arrive… and let the earth keep turning all the while. So tell me about how you go places, if you would, not only what you get up to once you're there. Distance will keep us from learning about each other the traditional way and I see no harm in shaking tradition up a bit and asking you some questions.

And what tradition have men like you and I to turn to in times of doubt anyhow? Ours is a history and culture that has to be rebuilt and refurbished (from the ground up it often feels like) with every generation, everybody searching for everybody else, nobody getting anything handed to them. It's up to the ones around in the moment to build for the blokes come after.

Aside—I've been working my way through Lehmanm's Dusty Answer on the train. Any chance you've read it yet? Have you any thoughts to share if so? It has points of interest. I thought you seemed keen on literature and I certainly don't mind discussing it. It would be something to share between us if naught else.

I hope you're keeping well.

Yours ever faithfully,

R.E.


	18. Sandringham, October 1927

21/10/27

Dear T,

I'm up in the middle of the night as happens sometimes and after some time lying awake my thoughts have turned back to you. This is not a particular letter as regrettably I'm out of the mood for one but I hope I've properly laid the scene.

I don't mind the accommodations here so much as at B. Castle but they're a far cry from home… London, that is. I haven't slept at my real "home" for going on ten years now. This has certainly developed my skill at sleeping in carriage cars although that's rather a dim silver lining for all the loneliness that results. Now you'd think I'd have come to be more comfortable out here—sometimes it seems as if I must spend about half the year in Norfolk—but something about this place turns me off and I've never quite figured out what. Perhaps I'll stumble upon the reason years after I've left service, in the far off future, and everything will suddenly make sense.

That happens all too often, doesn't it? You said something similar back in Downton if I remember right—and I hope that I do. What I've the capacity to recall pales in comparison to what it was like, to be sure, but it makes for something of a souvenir all the same.

Our night together feels years gone and like yesterday all at the same time.

I'll go home at Christmas this year, likely the 28th or the 29th. I hadn't suspected that given all I took off during the Yorkshire tour but I shouldn't complain and beyond that I've long gotten tired of looking gifted horses in the mouth. The point is that I should like to see you when I do, if we can swing it. At times like these when I am prone to feeling lonely it pleases me to think somebody is waiting for me the same as I am waiting for him, so we must set a date as soon as possible if we can. As you said once: I should like for us to "count down".

T. I miss you terribly, and I'd say I hope you are missing me, too, only to wish this pain in my heart on somebody I like so much as you seems uncouth.

But I do hope you're thinking of me, in whatever way pleases you most.

Yours most faithfully,

R.E.


	19. Sandringham, October 1927

25/10/27

Dear Thomas,

Court is going into mourning effective tomorrow—circumstances as these are of no help to my poor mood. The weather has been sour and this house has me weary at the best of times. Did you know I'm a half hour ahead of you out here? Joylessly, I can assure you. I struggle with keeping time enough as it is.

Well, things will be only more bleak when we're all dressed in black. I find myself missing summer something awful.

You and I got lucky in Downton, didn't we? I remember sitting with you in the attics that night it rained, worrying about the day ahead… if they might cancel the parade, if the presentation would go awry, if I'd be spending half the day scrubbing mud out of boots or worse, drafted back into service on what was meant to be my day off. Work stuff. But you kept my mind off of it. I needn't have fretted at all.

About the weather, that is, for I had something else to think about, and your talent for distraction only made the nerves worse on that score. 

"Is he like me?" I wondered, and, "will he like me?" 

I thought I was sure, but these things are never 100% until you've got the proof right in front of your eyes. I'm only sorry mine came the way it did, for your sake.

If only I'd trusted my intuition! 

We could have spent the storm doing something other than talking, if I had.

I miss you. I hope this finds you well. It looks as if I'll be back in London by the end of the month, but no promises. In this line of work things can change on the spur of the moment.

Yours,

R.E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **companion piece:** [writing in the margins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551879)
> 
> **related works for this chapter:**
> 
>   * [Mr Barrow has vanished [rated M]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381473) by [Infinity2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinity2020/pseuds/Infinity2020)
> 



	20. Sandringham, October 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baby chapter

26/10/27

Dear T,

It didn't take long for somebody to get suspicious about my correspondence, so this is the last, for a bit of time at least. The plan has changed. As of now we should head back up to London on 3/11. I'd tell you I'll write in the meanwhile and send it all on later but I've never been very good at that sort of thing—it's nicer to know somebody is on the other end. It feels too much like a diary to do otherwise. 

I found myself wondering earlier if you weren't writing to me. I suppose I'll find out upon my return to London. Don't feel any different if you haven't been, naturally. I daydream more often than not ; that's all.

You'll receive one more letter from me before I return, posted separate. I hope it pleases you.

Yours,

R.E.

*

25/10/27

Dear,

Getting by without your words to keep me company has been a trial beyond compare. Already you know me so intimately—can you imagine, then, how much I long for you? All too often when the day is done I lie awake in bed with my mind held fast by memories of all we shared that night in D— and everything you've brought to my mind since…

...

....how maddening to think I've had you for so short a time as I have! How maddening that all but four days of it has been spent apart! 

And yet when I peer out my window at night I see the same moon as you, and I wake to the same sun.

I beg you keep me on your mind when I am far. You are on mine by night and by day and all beyond and in-between.

Yours,

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretend the formatting on these isnt dreadfully inconsistent; ill edit it all when its finished


	21. Downton, October 1927

Oct 28, 1927

Dear Richard,

Well you're still in Norfolk so you won't be reading this any time soon, but that won't stop me from writing to you even so. I hadn't planned on sending anything yet, but then I figured if you weren't going to be writing to me any longer anymore I had better step up and take over. It's only fair. Funny you say you don't like writing letters without sending them right after (that is what you meant, yes?) because I've been doing that for you since you left. So, here's me writing one to send out soon as I can instead, and if I can get more stamps I'll post the other ones too. Look forward to a bundle I suppose. Maybe I'll get that done with by the time you're back?

Wondering suits you better than it does me, so thank you for writing as much as you were able. You made it sound like you fall off the face of the earth when you're travelling.

Seeing as you're apparently travelling so much I did not find that to be very encouraging.

I missed having a somebody to write to though. All those years. I know I've stuck my foot in it with you more times than I should have for only a few months of correspondence but that just makes me want to do better, not to quit.

If I had my way I'd be wooing you in person and none of this would be a problem but I don't get my way very often and this is no different. But, I'd like to make it work all the same. I think we can, if we put our minds to it.

I'd very much like to see you at Christmas. Or whenever. Maybe I could go up to London sometime if you wanted—not soon mind you but someday.

Look at me, planning for two months out and "someday". You've made me a romantic and no mistake.

Most affectionately,

T.B.

P.S. Am I allowed to mention that we spent our 25ths the same way in a letter I've put my name on? I'll wait to post that one til you're back in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't kid yourself thomas you've been a romantic your whole entire life


	22. London, November 1927

5/11/27

Dear T,

Thanks for all the letters. I may have said this before, but I did worry you wouldn't care to receive my own, and here I've got several from you to remind me otherwise. It means the world to me that you were thinking of me even when I was away.

The trouble is you're right; I am travelling rather often. As pertains to future correspondence whilst I am—I hope not to disappoint you, but I'm afraid I can't make any promises. I'd hate to do so and then have trouble keeping them. I don't know about 'falling off the face of the Earth' but it can be difficult to keep in touch moving around. Prying eyes and all. I wouldn't call myself terribly organised as it is but the changes in routine don't help. It gets tougher to keep my cards close to my vest.

But I've done my best for you and will continue to do. I'm afraid that's the most I can offer. You'll tell me when it ceases to be enough, surely? I understand it can be trying being in your shoes no matter how I hope otherwise.

In any case I am now returned to London (if but for a few weeks) and thus have got some more privacy as well as more chances to get out of the house, as it were. The weather has been dreadful but I missed my social circle that much. On that note I did enjoy the Lehmann, thanks. I read it on recommendation from a friend of mine—a friend to whom I hope you'll be introduced eventually, though she and I don't see each other all too often owing to my work. I'm glad you enjoyed it yourself (I ought to know more about your taste), but I agree wholeheartedly it made the papers for the wrong reasons. Sorry that soured it for you.

I've been requested to ask that you come up to London soon as you're able. I think the crowd is wondering if you're a genuine man or one I conjured up in my head. 

And of course I'd like to have you around for my own reasons, too. I'm looking forward to that letter you mentioned from the 25th.

Yours most faithfully,

R.E.

P.S. The next you're able we ought to telephone. I've some information to relay about your outing in York. 


	23. Downton, November 1927

Nov 30, 1927

Dear Richard,

Well, the envelope I stick this in will have the honour of my very last 1st Class stamp. I think I've written more letters to you in the last three weeks than I have to anybody in the last year. Maybe even since coming back to Downton. The only other person I write to with any regularity is Miss Marigold but that's a very different sort of thing you understand. Can you believe it's almost December? I suppose it will be December by the time you're reading this. The days are very short now. They have been but I'm realising it more and more. Do you much like winter, yourself? I've never been very fond of it.

Just a few months ago (and those seem very short too, don't they?) you were here and the sun was up till about three o'clock in the morning. It's blacker now at half six than it was when you and I were sitting in that field between here and Easingwold in the middle of the night.

I hope I've made it clear by now but just in case I haven't, I think of that all the time. All of it, everything we got up to. Even me crying all over your jacket in that field I just mentioned. I would quite like to forget that bit actually but that would hardly be fair to you, would it be? And if I'm going to remember crying I'd prefer it be that time than any other. The point is that I miss you. That's what I'm using my last stamp on. You will get this tomorrow night or Friday morning and by then hopefully I'll have bought some more so we can keep doing whatever this is until you go to Sandringham and leave me to wallow up here without any nice things in the post. But if I can't manage it, because I am very busy, just know that I am thinking of you and thinking about stealing time to pop down to the village and spend more of my hard earned wages on fancy postage.

Anyway, I hope that business with the brusher took care of itself. Your problems always seem to. And I was sorry to hear you couldn't work out your half day after all. Just keep looking forward to Christmas, since they've promised you something. You've earned it, working as you do.

I'm looking forward to it, myself. If it happens. Like you said I won't hope too much as I don't want to be disappointed, but if we can make it happen I'll be a very happy man.

Your loving,

T.B.

P.S. I'm very glad you liked that. "Your loving." I'll keep doing it even in ones I put my name on if you don't mind. It's true after all.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [@combeferre](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mr Barrow has vanished](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26381473) by [Infinity2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinity2020/pseuds/Infinity2020)




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